Russian Requiem
by Aelia O'Hession
Summary: It was supposed to be a simple mission to save a refugee camp. Yet when Agent Natasha Romanoff encounters one of the women from the refugee camp, it awakens all sorts of painful memories and wounds. How will Natasha cope with a past she thought long dead and buried that is standing right before her?
1. The Extraction

**Russian Requiem**

_Disclaimer – This is a work of fanfiction. All recognizable characters and elements belong to Marvel Comics and its affiliates. The purpose of this publication is entertainment, not profit. All original characters are my creation. Enjoy!_

**Chapter 1: The Extraction**

The ground shook with each exploding bomb. Debris rained down, making visibility poor and crossing the camp compound dangerous. It was supposed to have been a simple extraction of refugees from a valley in the mountains of Afghanistan. Somehow, somewhere, the information S.H.I.E.L.D was working from had soured, turning the extraction into a harrowing nightmare for the Avengers and S.H.I.E.L.D agents that had accompanied them. Director Nick Fury's voice snapped commands in everyone's earpiece, trying to salvage the mission.

Screams of anguish echoed in the valley as refugees were caught in burning buildings. The hostile force had appeared out of nowhere. Not a sound had been heard, nor a blip noticed on any surveillance imaging. The only light in the valley was from the fires that burned steadily all around. Natasha Romanoff ran across the compound to the final building to be cleared, her boots kicking up ash and dust. Beside her ran Steve Rogers, his stars and stripes Captain America uniform burned and tattered. Around them, Tony Stark, Dr. Bruce Banner, Thor, Clint Barton and a bevy of agents tried to push back the hostiles. Exhaustion lined everyone's face, but no one was ready to admit defeat yet.

Steve surveyed the ramshackle one story building as they approached it. It was a typical slapdash building of refugee camps – wooden walls supporting a corrugated metal roof. "We won't have much time, its burning too quickly. You go right, I'll go left. Get as many out as you can."

Natasha nodded once in understanding before dashing into the building.

Steve quickly followed, taking the left side of the building. The smoke and heat were oppressive, but Steve kept on. As his exploration of the first few rooms proved futile, he was forced to turn back when he encountered the wall of flame that had been the back half of the building. He turned back, making his way back to the front to aid Natasha. It was on his way out that he saw it. There was a doorway almost completely hidden by charred rubble, but a faintly fluttering white scarf marked the only hole in the blockage.

"Keep back!" he called as loudly as he could over the din of everything else. "I'm going to move this."

With a grunt and straining muscles, Steve slowly inched the wreckage away from the door. The thick smoke makes him cough, interrupting his progress. Though he knows himself to be incredibly strong, he understands the environmental limitations being imposed upon him.

"Need a hand?"

Steve looks over his shoulder to find Stark. The Iron Man suit is starting to come apart from the repeated clashes with the enemy. Steve gives a quick nod in the affirmative. Time is precious for whatever people may be trapped back there.

Once the rubble is clear, Steve enters through the doorway. The air is still heavy with heat, but easier to breathe since the rubble had kept a good deal of the choking smoke out. In the half-light of glowing embers he sees a woman clutching two small children in a corner. All three look close to fainting.

"Stark, get the children out."

The woman clutches the children tighter as the strange man in a metal suit approaches her. Her expression is one of distrust, not knowing who started the destruction of her home.

"Ma'am, he's going to bring your children to safety. We don't have much time. You need to trust us." Steve tries to reassure the woman that they mean no harm. He watches as her eyes dart about, assessing her predicament. She bends her head and whispers a few words to the children.

Reluctantly, the woman passes the children to Stark. He gathers them up and jettisons towards safety.

Steve offers a hand to the woman. "Come with me, ma'am. I'm going to get you out."

She grasps the outstretched hand and allows herself to be pulled along. Steve's original route though the building has been cut off by more burning debris. He hurries desperately through the burning maze, searching for a way out.

Outside the building, Fury and the rest of the team wait anxiously. Everyone else had cleared the buildings and pushed back the enemy. Only Steve was missing. "Where the hell is he?" Fury barks. The Avengers team looks around at each other and takes a step forward. "And don't any of you dumbasses think about going in there. Losing one of you would be bad enough." Fury surveys the scene. What a mess, he thinks to himself. Where the hell did we go wrong?

Inside the building, Steve and the woman reach critical levels of desperation. They both know they have few precious moments left before the building claims them. Their breath comes in ragged gasps in the ever thickening smoke. What they need is a miracle. Then they see it – an exit. They dash towards it, only to hear the ominous groan of the building about to collapse.

"Sir!" Agent Hill calls out. "I see them! The building is just seconds away from collapse."

"I need a med evac team ready! This could get ugly." Fury paces on the ridge.

As the team watches, Steve and the woman make it only a few more paces before everything gives way. All of the Avengers and agents wear similar expressions of horror as they watch the scene, feeling helpless. Steve crouches low, dragging the woman down with him. He holds the adamantium shield aloft, hoping to deflect the worst of the collapse from their heads. The woman clutches at him in fear, muttering a prayer Steve does not recognize under her breath. All around them, glowing corrugated metal and blazing wood beams crash around them. Though the noise of destruction is loud, nothing can drown out the scream of pain that rips from the woman's mouth as a burning beam lands on her slightly exposed leg.

_The world is red, hazy and cacophonous. A nightmare become reality. Only a gloved hand of blue and soft blue eyes keep me from collapsing. Prayer falls from my lips, nearly silent in the symphony of destruction. The gloved hand nor the soft eyes cannot help me when the pain comes. A wrenching, destructive pain. Nothing can hold back my screams. Darkness comes, but the screams follow me._


	2. The Hospital

**Chapter 2: The Hospital**

Waking was hard, but necessary. Within the darkness of sleep was the sound of violence and death. She was sure the screams of the dying would haunt her for a long time to come. Yes, the waking was necessary so she could have some peace.

After a struggle, her gummy eyes pried themselves open. The world was blindingly bright, with a lightly acrid scent to it. A few rapid blinks later, her eyes adjusted. She finds herself in a very clean and extremely high-tech hospital room. Her head turns from side to side, trying to take it all in. It is certainly the most advanced hospital she has ever been in.

"Good morning," a nurse in a crisp white uniform says. "Nice to see you awake."

The woman shifts in her bed and gasps as pain shoots up her left leg. "Where am I? How long have I been asleep?" Her voice cracks; her throat is dry. Her head is full of so many questions that need explanation.

The nurse hands her a cup of water. "Four days. As to where you are, I'll let the Director explain." She depresses a syringe into a tube attached to the woman's arm. "A little morphine for the pain." She then proceeds to wash the woman's face and brush out her hair. The nurse makes a note on the clipboard that another bath will be necessary soon.

Once the nurse leaves, the woman settles back into the pillows. She fights the soporific effect of the morphine. She does not want to return to the place of darkness and screams. Her fingers fiddle with the sheet. Four days of sleep has left her restless. She wants to be up and moving, but the sear of pain in her leg reminds her that movement may not be possible for a long time.

After some time – there is no clock so the woman has no way of keeping track of just how much time – a formidable man with an eye patch enters her hospital room. His presence commands attention and respect. His attitude reminds her of some warlords she has seen in newsreels.

"It's good to see you awake." He settles into the chair beside her bed. "We were concerned that you would never wake. You were severely malnourished in combination with suffering from smoke inhalation. I am Director Nick Fury. You are being treated in a highly specialized hospital run by the agency S.H.I.E.L.D."

"I thank you for your treatment, Mr. Fury." Her voice is slightly accented, a combination of something Eastern European and Middle Eastern. "Can you tell me where the children are?"

"Your children are being treated here as well. They are just in the next room."

"You misunderstand me, Mr. Fury. They're not my children. They are my students."

Fury leans back in the chair to survey the woman laid up in the hospital bed. Someone had washed her hair in the past four days. It gleams like ebony in the bright fluorescent hospital lights. With the dirt scrubbed from her, she appears younger than Fury initially thought. "Perhaps you should explain from the beginning, then. Let me understand what was going on at that refugee camp."

The woman takes a few sips from the water glass before speaking. "The beginning. That is somewhere I have not thought about for a long time." She breathes deeply, willing the memories to cease swirling around in her head. Watching her hands she beings her story. "My name is Olena Sokolov. I grew up in a Russian orphanage. Life wasn't particularly pleasant, but what Russian's life really is?" Her mouth twists in a wry smile. "I grew up wanting to help people. I suppose I have the orphanage to thank for that. Once I was old enough I worked for many years, saving up money to go to university. I earned a degree in social work from St. Petersburg University. Afterwards, I traveled, working in poverty stricken communities all over the world, though mostly in the Middle East."

"How did you end up in that refugee camp in Afghanistan?" Fury questions.

Olena raises her eyes to look at Fury. "A colleague needed some help. He sent a few of us a very desperate letter. He told us about so many terrible things that were happening in that valley. Our work there was to get those families to safety. The camp you found us in was a staging point. Families would come and stay there until we could move them out to a safer location."

Though Fury wants to know so much more, he questions Olena slowly and carefully. "What did you experience in that valley?"

A shadow crosses Olena's face. "We dealt with the Taliban daily. Their force is strong in that valley. The hills have confusing networks of caves throughout them, providing perfect hideouts. There were a number of small attacks led against us because we were educating the girls. But there was something in those hills that even the Taliban feared. None of us ever got a good look."

"The attack a few nights ago, who do you think led it?"

Olena shifts in the hospital bed, wincing as the motion jostles her injured leg. "I can't be sure. Maybe the Taliban? They had been quiet for a while, which usually means they were planning an attack on us. I was concerned with keeping the children safe that I never left the building until your agents took me out."

Fury pats Olena's hand. "Thank you for your help. I'll let you rest now. I'm sure the doctor will be in shortly to explain your condition and what your treatment plan is. I will like to ask more questions later, to see if you can remember anything else."

"Thank you, Mr. Fury, for saving my life."

Fury shakes his head. "It's not me you need to thank, Miss. Sokolov. Captain America saved your life; it's him you should be thanking."

Olena's next few weeks are spent in recovery; gaining strength and watching the burn on her left calf heal. She has no shortage of visitors. All of the refugees who were rescued come to check in on her. Everyone comes in, murmurs a prayer for healing in Pashto, then distracts her with other, more trivial, conversation. Olena takes comfort in the prayers of her community. After the first week, she feels strong enough to resume teaching again. The young Afghani girls gather in Olena's hospital room and eagerly resume their lessons. The familiarity of the scene keeps the nightmares at bay sometimes. Olena regularly sees a S.H.I.E.L.D psychiatrist, making sure that her mind is adapting to the things that have happened to her. Sleeping is not quite such a terrifying thing anymore, but the screams are still there. Dr. Matthews assures her that this is normal and with time the screams will fade.

Director Fury comes a few times to ask some questions, but Olena is unable to remember anything more. One time he asks, "Is there any possibility of you still having this letter your colleague sent?"

"I think so. He sent it as an email. I just can't remember if I deleted it or not."

Fury hands her a small clear glass tablet. "Pull up your email."

Feeling silly, Olena just stares at the glass. "I'm sorry. Can someone show me how to work this?" She waves her hand at the tablet. "I've been working in poverty so long; I'm not up to date on the latest technology. I think the last computer I worked on had been built in 2000."

She should meet Steve, Fury thinks to himself. The pair would be perfectly out of time together. Fury touches a corner of the tablet. It brightens to life, ready to do whatever its operator wants. "JARVIS, open a web-browser for Miss Sokolov."

"Certainly, Director Fury."

The disembodied voice makes Olena jump. "Is that…." She points to the tablet.

"Yes, Miss, the computer is talking to you." There is a hint of bemusement in the disembodied British accented voice. "I'm JARVIS. I am an artificial intelligence system Mr. Stark designed."

"I…It's nice to meet you JARVIS." She inputs a web address for her email, and then enters her access information when prompted. Her inbox appears after a few moments, flooded with unread emails from months ago. She scans down the list, searching for the right entry. "Dimitry's letter is still here." She pulls it up and shows it to Fury.

"JARVIS print that letter for me in my office," Fury commands. "I want to look it over to see if this Dimitry fellow makes mention of anything we consider important. And while you're at it, find everything you can on him."

When Director Fury leaves her room, Olena sinks back into her bed and sighs deeply. She hopes that she has not brought misfortune to Dimitry by giving the fearsome director his letter. She only wants to be helpful and protect all of the other families that may still be suffering from whatever lurks in those hills. She wrestles with her conscience before falling into a fitful sleep.

After a month of recovery in bed, the doctor finally clears Olena for physical therapy. Aside from brief forays to the bathroom, Olena's movement has been limited. She is delighted to finally begin a physical therapy program to strengthen her damaged leg. Her left calf had been burned badly, and there would be scar tissue on it for many long years to come, possibly permanently. Using it made it ache, but it was an ache that made her thankful to be alive.

During her hospital stay, a small collection of clothing has appeared in the small dresser - undergarments and tank tops, skirts and shawls made by some of the refugee women, and other basic items. Dressed in a black tank top and a long skirt exuberantly tie-dyed by her refugee children, Olena slowly takes a few laps of the hospital wing, leaning heavily on the cane she needs to help her walk. Mostly everyone leaves her alone, but her few regular nurses smile and politely make sure she is doing okay and not overexerting herself. The silence is welcome after spending all morning with the children. Faced with tragedy, the children were remarkably resilient. Some had lost a parent, some had lost both parents, and others still had lost a sibling or two. But they had bonded together, as children will do, and were helping each other cope.

As Olena progresses down the hall, she hears snatches of an argument. It seems to be coming from one of the examination rooms, and the pair was making no effort to be quiet.

"Barton, do you always have to be an idiot?" a female voice chides. Natasha dabs at a cut on Barton's forehead.

"It's nothing," the male voice grumbles. "It's Stark's fault I fell in the first place."

Olena comes up to the door and tries her best to hurry past the door without letting the couple know she was there. She does not want to appear as though she had been eavesdropping. She manages a few hurried steps past the door. The only warning is a huff from the female voice before Olena finds herself falling to the ground.

"Dammit! I'm sorry," the female says. "Let me help you up."

Olena lifts her head and feels her heart stop. Above her is a pair of eyes she thought she would never see again in all her life. Impossible, Olena thinks. She can't be here.

Natasha is equally stunned. Her hand freezes mid-air as she reaches down to help up the poor woman she had knocked over. The pale green eyes of the woman beneath her are wide in surprise. Natasha knows that hers are equally surprised. There are the same pale green eyes Natasha sees in the dreams of her childhood.

"Nattie?" The woman asks in a whisper.

"Olena?" Natasha asks just as quietly.

"What is going on here?" The voice of Fury booms down the hall. "Why is my patient on the floor, and why do the both of them look like they've seen a ghost?"

Olena slowly gets to her feet, wincing at the new ache in her calf, and studies Natasha. "So long…" she murmurs in Russian. Her hand reaches out to touch Natasha's face. "I had been certain that the day they took you was the last I would ever see of you."

"I had thought you were lost to me forever," Natasha replies in Russian. Memories begin to swell to the surface – memories she had thought long buried. The ache in Natasha's heart is too much. She musters the Black Widow mask she has carefully cultivated for so many years and shutters her emotions away. "I am sorry for knocking you down," she says in curt English. With her face devoid of emotion, Natasha turns on her heel and stalks away down the hall.

Olena reaches a hand down the hallway, trying to grasp the retreating image of Natasha. Slumping against the wall, she squeezes her eyes shut. Memories – likely the same ones swimming before Natasha's eyes - play on the back of her eyelids. The old wound on her heart opens, swamping her with pain she had carefully tried to seal away.

"Can you explain to me what's going on here?" Fury snaps at her.

"I can, just not now." She turns away from Fury dismissively. Gripping the cane in her hand, Olena turns down a different hallway, needing to find a quiet spot to think.


	3. Explanations

**Chapter 3: Explanations**

Shaken from her encounter, Olena wanders the halls aimlessly, heedless of where she is. All she craves is silence and solitude. Seeing her again after all these years has shaken Olena's world. She knows she must provide an explanation to the Director, but first she has to come to terms with what just happened.

Olena passes through a doorway and looks around in surprise. The windows offer a glimpse of the ocean, rather than open air. How is it possible? She steps closer to the windows, trying puzzle out where she is. She smiles in delight as a school of fish swim past the window. Olena pulls over a chair and loses herself in the tranquil comfort of the ocean.

Surly from a conversation with Stark, Steve makes a similar journey through the helicarrier. There is something in Tony's mannerisms that always irk Steve and rile him up. He will admit that Tony is brilliant, but that does not excuse him being a complete jerk sometimes. Steve makes his way to the one room no one ever uses – it's a glass conference room that offers a wonderful view of the ocean when they are underwater.

He stomps into the room and slams the door. Olena jumps in the chair, shrieking in surprise.

"Oh! I'm sorry," Steve stammers. "There's normally no one here." He turns to leave, rapidly thinking if there is somewhere else he can sulk.

"I didn't realize others used this place for sulking."

Steve gives the woman before him a small smile. "It's only me, as far as I know. Well, I guess you too now." As he looks at her, realization dawns on him. "You're the woman I rescued from the fire."

Surprise and admiration cross Olena's features. "Then I must thank you, if you are the one Fury calls Captain America."

"Please, my name is Steve Rogers, ma'am."

Olena smiles. "Then thank you, Steve, for saving my life and those of the children. It took great courage to find us in that building."

"Just doing my duty, ma'am."

Olena chuckles at the formal tone. "Please, don't call me ma'am. It makes me feel like an old grandmother. I'm Olena." She gestures to another chair. "Sit, please. I'm sure we can sulk together."

Steve hesitates for a moment, seemingly at war with himself. Finally, he pulls up a chair alongside Olena. Carefully watching the fish, Steve asks, "What were you all doing in that valley?"

Olena turns to him, confused. "Did Fury not tell you all what we were doing there?" Steve shakes his head. Secrets, Olena sighs to herself. Keeping secrets never accomplishes what you want them to. The man saved her life; he has a right to know why she needed saving in the first place. "Here's why I was living in that valley…" She relates to Steve everything that she has told Fury.

"It's an honorable thing you do, helping those people," Steve says when Olena has finished her story.

"I just like to help people." She fiddles with the hem of her skirt, unsure if she should tell the next part of the story. There's no harm, she finally decides. Besides, it might be nice to let it out and have someone listen; someone who wasn't going to analyze it minutely like Dr. Matthews.

"Then, earlier today, I had the shock of my life. It's why I'm down here. Seeing her again brought back so many memories – memories I had locked away forever."

Steve did not quite follow. "See who, Olena?"

Olena's voice is a thread whisper. "Nattie."

"Nattie?" Steve shakes his head. "I don't think we have anyone on here with the name of Nattie." He pauses, trying to puzzle out the mystery. "What does she look like?"

"Short red hair, bright green eyes, my height. She doesn't smile anymore – they took that away from her."

Steve's eyes widen in shock. There is only one person on the S.H.I.E.L.D helicarrier that the description fits. Impossible. "You mean Natasha?"

"Is that her name now? When we were little her name was Natalia. We were best friends. When they took her away, I thought I would never see her again." Olena curls into herself, wrapping her arms protectively around her torso.

"Does Fury know?" Steve questions quietly. He knows so little about Agent Romanoff. Since teaming up to form the Avengers, she has been polite to Steve, but not particularly friendly. Shared details of her past are few and vague, not giving the curious enough to understand who Natasha Romanoff is and where she comes from. If the incident is shaking Olena up this badly, he can only imagine how shaken Natasha must be.

"I…I haven't told him yet. I was too shaken up when it happened, so trying to give an explanation would be impossible." Olena sighs. "Wonders never cease. It feels as though someone decided to turn my life upside down and give it a good shake to see how the pieces would fall."

Steve reaches out and awkwardly pats her hand in comfort. "In a way I know how you feel. I was frozen in ice for seventy years and woke up to a whole new strange world."

Olena's head snaps over to look at Steve. "You can't be serious," her voice incredulous.

Steve chuckles at her surprise. "I swear on my honor," he says, raising a hand like an oath. "I fought in World War II. I had to crash the plane I was flying. My only option was an icy landing. I blacked out –though I was certain I was dying at the time – only to wake up and be told seventy years had passed." He laughs at the memory. "You can imagine the shock I had."

Olena squeezes Steve's hand. "I can't imagine. Everything you knew gone…."

Feeling like he had somehow accidentally found a friend in this little ocean view room, Steve keeps going, opening up just a little bit more. "It's hard sometimes. I've had a difficult time adjusting. Sometimes the team gives me a hard time because they'll reference some bit of pop-culture and I haven't a clue what they're talking about. Don't even get me started on Stark's fancy tech toys…"

"You're not the only one," Olena interjects.

Steve raises his eyebrow quizzically. "How do you mean? You're a girl of this century; you know what's going on."

"Steve, sometimes I feel just as lost as you." Olena turns in the chair so she can look directly at Steve. Sitting this close to him, she realizes that his eyes are in fact the same blue ones that saved her from the fire. "My entire adult life has been spent working in poverty stricken communities. I'm not sheltered in some modern facility doing social work. I'm living amongst the community I'm working with, living the same kind of life they are. It helps me help them better. I'm used to not having or knowing what the newest technological toy is or what movies and music are popular. Coming back into mainstream society is always a shock."

Amazement fills Steve. Never before had he encountered someone in this strange new world who even had the vaguest sense of what he was going through. Compassion and understanding was sitting beside him in the form of a young woman whom he had saved from a fire. The pair sits in silence for a while, watching the fish swim by. There are a million doubts and fears left for each of them to explore and release, but today. New friends should not be burdened with all of your problems when you first meet them.

"You should tell Fury," Steve gently reminds Olena some time later.

"I'm scared to," she whispers in reply. "He's so intimidating." Olena is silent for a while, trying to muster her courage. "Come with me?" she pleads suddenly. "I can't face him alone with this. If there's a friendly face, I might not pass out from fear."

"One Fury rage deterrent, at your service," Steve jokes. "Come on. He's probably at the bridge playing God."

Steve leads Olena through a confusing network of hallways and doors. She is beginning to realize that wherever she is, it's much larger than she originally believed. Mindful of her healing leg, Steve makes the pace slow pointing out things as they go. It's clear that he has spent a good amount of time here. Steve leads her through a pair of sliding doors saying, "The bridge."

Olena cannot conceal her surprise. She knew she was someplace strange after finding a room with a view of under the ocean, but the view from the bridge is what solidifies that this group of people is a far cry from normal. From the large bay of clear glass windows, she can see miles and miles of open ocean before her. "Is this...a ship?" Olena asks Steve in wonder.

"To be precise, a ship that becomes a sort of airplane. They call it a helicarrier." He smiles at her shock. "It freaked me out too."

Hearing murmurs behind him, Fury turns around. He finds Steve and Olena standing just beyond the conference table near the door. So they found each other, Fury muses to himself.

"I want to explain…about Natasha and me."

"So you've finally decided to talk. I don't like waiting for answers, Miss Sokolov. Just give me a few moments while I get everyone here."

"Everyone?" Olena audibly gulps in fright.

"The team needs to be aware of the situation so that we don't have issues with it in the future." He taps a button on one of the clear glass monitors at the bridge. "Avengers, please assemble at the bridge. Agents Coulson and Hill as well." He motions to the conference table. "Take a seat; everyone should be here shortly."

Steve guides Olena to one of the chairs. She settles into it shakily. Steve settles in a chair next to her and takes her hand. "It's going to be all right."

Stark and Dr. Banner emerge through the door, bickering over some science theory. Stark is clearly trying to get a rise out of Bruce, ever testing the limits of patience. Thor walks in behind them, bemused at the bickering and munching contentedly on some Pop-Tarts. Coulson and Hill walk in together, confused as to why they've been brought to an Avengers meeting. Barton is last, a glower on his face.

Tony is the first to notice the pair already seated at the table. "Hey Capsicle." His eyes flicker over to the young woman who is trying her hardest to seem invisible. "Hey doll face. You joining up with our merry band? Can you do anything cool? We go out for shwarma every Thursday."

"Take a seat," Fury says. "We've got business to discuss." The Avengers settle into the chairs, wondering if Fury has something exciting for them. "First, some introductions are in order. Everyone, this is Olena Sokolov. She's the young woman Steve saved from the burning building. You've all been briefed as to why she was in the refugee camp. Olena, these are the Avengers." Fury beings to gesture at the different people seated around the table. "Steve you already know, beside him is Tony Stark also known as the Iron Man. Beside him is Dr. Bruce Banner. Beside him is Thor, Norse God of Thunder. Then next to him is Clint Barton the Hawkeye, followed by Agents Phil Coulson and Maria Hill. The last two aren't Avengers, but they're instrumental in keeping this team operational."

"Where's Romanoff?" Dr. Banner interjects into Fury's flurry of introductions.

"She won't come out of her room," Clint says. "It sounds like she's broken everything in there. Someone care to explain why she's so pissy?"

"That's why we're here, Barton. Miss Sokolov has something to relate that involves Agent Romanoff."

Clint's eyes snap to Olena. "What did you do to her?" he growls.

Olena is too offended to be afraid of Clint's glare. "Do?" she snaps "I'm perhaps the only person in her life that's never done anything to her!"

"Are you implying that you know our dear Black Widow?" Stark asks, clearly intrigued that there is some drama to be discovered.

"The woman you know as Natasha was my best friend when we were children." Olena looks around the table, curious to see their expressions as they digest this piece of information. Surprise is the most prevalent one on every face. "We grew up in the same orphanage for a few years. She was a little older than me, so she protected me from the meaner children." A sad smile tugs at Olena's mouth. "We pretended we were sisters because we have the same color eyes. We had hopes of being adopted together. We did everything together – shared our secrets, fears, nightmares, hobbies – everything you can imagine lonely little girls sharing. Then, one day, some strange men came to the orphanage and took some of the girls. Nattie was part of that group. The whisper around the orphanage was that these men were taking girls to train to be assassins. When they took Nattie away, I thought I would never see her again."

Olena reaches into a hidden pocket of her skirt and pulls out a small tarnished pocket watch. She pops it open and there pasted neatly to the inside lid is a black and white photograph. "This is Nattie and I – we were at a gymnastics class when this was taken." She places the photo on the table for all to see. It shows two little girls in dark leotards smiling broadly at the camera. Both curly heads of hair are pulled back in bouncy pigtails tied with light colored ribbon. One is slightly older than the other, but similar enough in features that they could be considered sisters.

"Seeing her today, after all these years….it was a shock." She turns the photo around so she can look at it. Olena's voice quiets, recalling memories. "I tried to find her once, when I was a teenager. A clerk at Moscow City Hall told me she was dead. He showed me the death certificate."

Steve silently hands Olena a handkerchief so she can wipe her streaming eyes. "I mourned for so long. Eventually the pain numbed and I was able to lock it away along with every memory of Nattie. I can only imagine how shocked and bewildered Nattie is right now." She pauses, remembering. "If her temper is anything like it was when we were children, she will need many more things to break before she calms down."

The others are silent as they absorb and make sense of Olena's story. Bruce quietly reflects on it, weighing this new revelation against everything he has been able to piece together about the coldly distant Natasha. He finds that it all seems to fit, but he's curious to know more, fill in the gaps of later childhood and teenage years.

Thor simply accepts it, knowing that there are many things that make up a warrior's soul. Some of those things are dark, others light. There are also times where some things of the light turn to darkness over time. His regard for the Black Widow as a warrior is not lessened. She has proven herself highly capable in their battles.

Steve is also quietly accepting. He had been aware that something dark had taken place long ago in Natasha's childhood. Hearing Olena's story makes him mourn for Natasha's lost childhood. It sounds as though the two were happy as children, even though they were living in the orphanage. Anger also simmers just below the forefront – anger for the pain that was caused to Olena as well. The anger surprises him. Reflecting on its cause will be necessary, but later when he can brood without interruption.

From across the table, Clint looks like a storm cloud. Oh how he wants to be angry with Olena for shaking Natasha's steel control. He wants someone to blame that he can readily punish. He wants someone to rail at for causing Natasha so much pain, so many nightmares. Unfortunately, the actual cause of the problem lies in long ago and far away. You cannot punch memories in the face.

Agents Coulson and Hill silently absorb the information, memorizing it so it can be added to the personnel file later.

Stark is the only one who speaks his thoughts. "Fascinating." He stands from his chair and begins to pace, his hands moving as he speaks. "A tragic tale, Miss Sokolov, filled with everything a true Russian tragedy needs. You really have perfected the art of miserable lives, haven't you?"

Olena sighs in exasperation. "It's a cultural thing, Mr. Stark. Death and misery are part of our identity; has been for centuries." (1)

"Which explains a lot about Agent Romanoff," Tony continues. "Now, with your tale added to the mix of what we've seen, it explains why she's almost completely unable to form friendships. The last real one she had – that we know of – was you, and that was taken from her cruelly. It's like being messed up is a requirement of being part of our little tea party."

Before Tony can upset Olena more, Fury steps in and silences Stark with a glare. "Miss Sokolov, while I am unhappy with you destabilizing one of my agents, I am happy you have come clean about your relation to her. I would advise, given Agent Romanoff's current state, that you stay clear for a while. Let her sort things out on her own terms."

Olena reluctantly nods in agreement. She recalls one time when they were children when she had interrupted one of Natasha's sulking sessions. Her arm was sore and bruised for a week. She desperately wants to reconnect with her friend, but knows that distance is for the best right now. But to have her best friend alive! It is one of her most desperate dreams come true.

(1) If anyone would like to read a very interesting book about the culture of death in Russia, I refer you to this book – Night of Stone: Death and Memory in Twentieth Century Russia by Catherine Merridale. She explores themes such as the effect of violence on the Russian culture, how Russians have chosen to remember their history, and what long lasting effects the Soviet regime has had on Russia.


	4. Tiptoeing

Sorry for the delay. The first three chapters had been pre-written before posting, so from this chapter forward there is going to be some time between them as I write them up.

Thank you for the reviews and story follows!

**Chapter 4: Tiptoeing**

The helicarrier stays at sea for a few more weeks. Though there is no immediate mission to fulfill, the crew is constantly busy, making sure things are prepared for the next time Director Fury decides to say go. Late at night in his office, Fury pours over every tiny piece of intelligence they have gathered on that Afghanistan valley they picked up the refugees from. Something is clearly not right, but Fury is baffled as to what. More information is necessary before they can move forward on that mission.

Fury's edict about leaving Natasha alone is easy to follow. Olena has only caught the occasional glimpse of the red-headed woman as she stalks the hallways of the heilcarrier. Natasha largely avoids everyone – taking meals alone in her room, training by herself, and every other possible task she can complete solo. When she is required to sit in a meeting with the other Avengers, her face is dark and thunderous, her body language screaming "don't mess with me".

Alone in her room, Natasha allows the memories to take over. The carefree memories of flying on the uneven bars at gymnastics class; the sensation of her feet solidly hitting the mat on dismount. She recalls a photograph being taken one day – she wonders whatever became of the photo. Always in her memories, Olena is there – a laughing, happy companion cheering young Natalia on at every moment. Such happiness in the face of the despair. The memory shifts, this time becoming one of the many nights they sat huddled under a blanket on the roof, sharing secrets.

Natasha weeps, wanting that happiness and friendship back.

A few days after her meeting with the Avengers, Olena is cleared from the hospital. She is assigned her own small bunk in the main living section of the helicarrier. Olena is pleased with the new arrangement, relishing the freedom to move about on her own without having to first ask permission from her medical caretakers. The room is small and military, but vastly more welcoming than the glaring white walls of the hospital. A small port window offers Olena a peaceful view of the ocean, underneath which is a small writing desk. The opposite wall holds a narrow bed and small dresser.

The majority of her time, however, is spent with her refugees. After gaining computer access, Olena corresponds with a refugee relocation and resettlement agency in New York City, hoping to get her charges settled into a new life as soon as the helicarrier docks. She spends hours every day teaching English, explaining American culture, and reviewing where the refugees can turn to for help if they need it. After having lived with these people for so long, she is proud of their efforts to prepare for a new world and life.

Dr. Banner comes by the tiny office allocated to Olena one day to find her buried in paperwork. "Are you trying to suffocate yourself?"

Olena jumps in surprise. "OH! Hello." She looks around the office, only just realizing how messy it has gotten. "Um, have a seat, if you can find the chair…"

Bruce moves a stack of papers from the metal folding chair against the wall and places them on the floor. "You have done phenomenal work with these refugees," he says as he draws the chair up to her desk. "In fact, I am impressed with all the work you've done in poverty communities."

"And I am impressed with all the work you have done, Doctor. I've read about your work doctoring the sick in India."

Bruce's smile is a little wan. "My good deeds are more atonement than altruism."

Confused, Olena crinkles her brows together. "Atonement? What could you possibly have to atone for?"

"So Fury didn't tell you about….the other guy?"

"I'm sorry Dr. Banner, I'm rather confused. What other guy?"

Bruce fiddles with his glasses. "A few years back, I had an accident in the lab. Excessive gamma radiation exposure. Simply put, it changed me. When I get angry, I…well, I turn into a giant green rage monster, as Stark calls him." He gestures to Olena's computer. "May I?"

Intrigued, Olena pushes the laptop towards Bruce. He is silent as he types a few things. "Here is the ugly truth." He turns the laptop back around to Olena.

On the screen is Bruce Banner's personnel file. A record of where he has been, what he has done, and every single person he has ever talked to. A number of videos and images accompany the information. There, Olena sees the Hulk, smashing away at something. Having seen enough, she shuts the laptop.

"Dr. Banner, my opinion of you has not changed. You do wonderful work for both the scientific community and the sick whom you tend." Olena takes his hand and squeezes it sympathetically. "Over the years I've learned to measure people by the whole of who they are, rather than just parts of them."

With a small smile, Bruce rises from the chair. "It's nice to be reminded that I'm appreciated for my work, rather than what my other half can do. I'll leave you to your work. I'm sure you're busy with our arrival on the horizon."

Over the thrumming of the helicarrier's many engines and machinery, the intercom crackles to life. "_Ladies and gentlemen, arrival in New York City is in three hours._"

A cheer erupts from the crew. After so long at sea, news of landfall is incredibly welcome. Those who are not engaged in critical tasks rush off to prepare for arrival in port.

Olena too, looks forward to their arrival. She has been craving open air and the opportunity to walk farther than the length of the helicarrier. While she packs her few belongings, a knock sounds on her door.

Agent Hill hands her a folder. "Paperwork for your refugees."

Olena gapes in amazement at the folder. It contains the immigration paperwork for the refugees coming over. "But how…?"

"Fury pulled some strings. He explained that admitting these refugees into the country was a matter of safety." Maria smiles wryly. "No one dares contradict Fury when he says something is matter of security."

"Oh this is wonderful! This is our first lucky break since trying to get them out of Afghanistan. I cannot begin to thank you all for everything that you've done."

"It's a matter of course, ma'am. Aid and protection is what we do." Maria gestures to the folder clasped tightly in Olena's hands. "At the bottom, you'll find two different forms for you, depending on which one you choose to use. I'll leave you to your packing."

Once Maria has left, Olena flips through the paperwork to figure out what Maria meant. What she finds astounds her. One set of papers is for a visa, granting her temporary status in America. The other set is complete immigration papers, declaring her intention to eventually become a naturalized citizen. She lets out a breath – never before has she been presented with such an opportunity. I suppose now is the time to decide what I'm doing with my life, Olena muses to herself. Do I start fresh in the land of dreams or do I go back? I've been taking care of other people for so long I've forgotten how to take care of myself.

With the folder tucked under her arm, Olena makes her way back to her quarters. Her meager possessions fit easily in a small duffle, so her packing for departure finishes quickly. She slings the duffle over her shoulder and makes her way up to the deck. Threading her way thought the bustle of preparation, Olena finds a quiet corner where she can think about her future while watching the helicarrier pull closer to port.

"Have you ever been to New York?" Steve asks, coming up beside Olena and pulling her from her reverie.

"Never. I've seen a fair number of countries, but never America." She turns to look at Steve. "Was it a shock for you?"

"A lot is different, but some things are the same. The buildings are bigger, there are a lot more people, but the alleys where I got beat up are still the same. That, in a strange way, is comforting."

They stand silently for a while, watching the New York City skyline grow larger as they approach. The crew moves around them in efficient preparation.

"I'm nervous, Steve. I'm not going to fit in at all. How am I going to get settled?" Her voice is plaintive and reminiscent of the lost little girl she was in Russia all those years ago.

"You don't need to worry about that," he says to reassure her. Most people in New York don't look at me twice when I can't figure something modern out. It's a city full of all sorts of people. You'll blend in more than you realize. Besides, I'm sure you'll be too busy getting your refugees settled to notice." He looks at her and watches the wind whip her ebony hair around her face. "As for getting settled, Fury will probably help out with that."

The helicarrier glides gracefully into port and is immediately attended by waiting deck hands outfitted in S.H.I.E.L.D. gear. While they wait to disembark, two little girls clutch nervously at Olena's hands. Olena murmurs words of comfort in Pashto while trying to quell the butterflies in her own stomach. As she watches the bustle of landing, Olena spies Barton crossing the deck.

"Agent Barton!" she calls. "May I have a word?"

He stalks across to her and then waits for her to speak.

"Might I make a request?" When Barton does not answer, Olena plows ahead. "You'll see her more than me. Please keep an eye on Nattie for me?"

Clint's gaze is hard and cold. "I'll do my best. Your appearance has shaken up some dark memories for her. We can't have a compromised agent. You don't seem too upset over the whole thing."

Stung, Olena returns a hard gaze to Clint. Her voice is cold iron as she speaks. "Do not assume I am affected any less than Natalia. I've been quietly wrestling with my own demons, and many more will rear their ugly heads if Nattie ever speaks to me again. Just because I'm not smashing things doesn't mean I'm not upset."

She stalks off along the deck to disembark with the other passengers. In truth, she has been far too busy with preparing the refugees for arrival to even do any of the demon wrestling she claims to have done. Instead, the haunting memories of the past hover in the background making it difficult to sleep. Undernourished upon her arrival to the helicarrier, she has barely gained any weight due to anxiety. She recognizes her old habits of avoiding the problem, yet is unwilling to meet it head on. Soon, she promises herself. Soon I will stop tiptoeing around and actually deal with this. But not today. Today is for getting a fresh start.


	5. An Interlude of Rage

**Author's Note:** I apologize for the long wait. Between visiting relatives over the holidays and uncertainty of how I wanted to continue this story forward, I was unable to write. I think, however, that I know where I'm going, so there shouldn't be anymore ridiculously long waits between updates.

Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, followed and favorited!

**An Interlude of Rage**

A vase sails through the air, propelled by anger, meeting its demise against a wall. Glass shards, water, and flower stems scatter on impact, joining the broken bits already strewn on the floor. The wall above the debris is scarred by the relentless bashing.

Natasha's hand reaches out, desperate for more ammunition. Perhaps if she screams enough, and breaks enough things, her bleeding heart will heal. After she had been taken, Natasha had carefully hardened her heart to the past, knowing that she would never again see her best friend. As an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. Natasha had no use for weakness. Fate was a cruel mistress indeed if with just a single mission Natasha Romanoff could once again know what it is to feel.

Her seeking hand finds a box filled to the brim of second hand dishware she had purchased for an insanely cheap price at a nearby thrift shop. With a scream of rage, Natasha hurls a plate at the wall. It chimes brightly as it smashes against the wall.

A knock at the door interrupts her throw of another plate.

"Go away!" she snarls at the unknown person on the other side.

Agent Barton's voice filter through the closed door, "Natasha, we need to talk about this."

Natasha refuses to talk. Instead she resumes her destruction of dinnerware. When she has spent the box, Natasha sinks to the floor, wrapping her arms around her knees and begins to sob. For the first time in her life, she sobs for her lost childhood; she sobs for the years on inhuman treatment at the hands of the Russians who made her into such a good spy; she sobs for her hardened heart that fears opening up to people. She sobs hardest when she realizes she has shut out the one person in all the world who would welcome her with open arms and accept her as she is – Olena, a once-upon-a-time best friend.


	6. Uncomfortable

**Chapter 5: Uncomfortable**

"This is unexpected, Steve." The hem of her long plum skirt flutters in the breeze about Olena's ankles as she sits in a rattan patio chair. She reflexively reaches to tame the flying hem, self-conscious about the scar on her calf. On the small side table at her elbow, a glass of red wine sits, half full. She looks at her companion, waiting for an explanation.

Two days prior, Steve had called her apartment out of the blue, asking if she would like to accompany him to dinner on Saturday. Flummoxed, she stupidly stuttered into the phone for a few moments before her brain started to form coherent thoughts again. After hearing Steve's assurances that he just wanted to see how she was settling into her new life in New York City, she agreed to meet him.

Now, the pair sits in a comfortable outdoor lounge area, waiting for a table to open up inside the restaurant. With a slight blush, Steve admits, "It's been over three months since we parted ways at the docks. I was curious to know how you were getting along." He takes a long pull of his beer, trying to hide his discomfort. Seventy years under ice had done nothing to improve his ability to interact with women.

Olena's fingers curl around the stem of her wine glass. "If I'm honest, I've been far too busy to even think about what's been going on." Any further comment is cut off by the arrival of the maître d'.

"Sir, your table has become available. If you would please follow me." The slight Asian man bows minutely before turning on his heel.

They follow the maître d' into the softly lit restaurant. He leads them along a serpentine path through tables of diners. The clink of glassware and flatware on dishes melds with the murmuring conversation and occasional laughter of the other diners. Olena and Steve are seated in a cozy booth, and after some deliberation of the menu, settle back to wait on their meals.

"As I said earlier, it doesn't feel like three months have passed. I've been so busy with my work."

"What are you doing these days, anyway?" Steve asks.

"I'm working with Immigration Services here in the city to help new immigrants and refugees begin their new lives." A steaming bowl of sticky rice and a platter of chicken and vegetables in peanut sauce are placed before her. With a small cry of delight, she dives in with her chopsticks.

Across the table, Steve is a bit lost. "Um…how am I…help?" He suddenly regrets letting Olena pick a place for dinner.

Laughing, Olena helps him with the chopsticks and walks him through a quick demonstration. "They take some getting used to," she concedes. "My caseload at the office has been overwhelming. So many people and families need help with their relocations and paperwork. I don't think I've really processed what's been going on around me."

The truth, something she does not feel comfortable admitting to Steve, is that she has thrown herself headlong into work so she does not have to think. Working constantly keeps the pain of Natalia's rejection locked deep within her mind where it cannot bother her. Only sometimes, in the dead of night, will that pain slip forward and consume her. Despite having been treated for malnutrition at the hospital on board the helicarrier, Olena is still frighteningly skinny. She works too much and forgets to eat, and then cannot eat when emotion takes over.

Steve watches as Olena practically inhales down her food. She hasn't gained an ounce, he thinks to himself. He senses there is something she's not telling him, but for the sake of a pleasant meal, he leaves it alone for the time being. Instead he turns the conversation to other things, asking her about her trips and the different cultures she has worked with. The rest of the meal passes enjoyably and the shadow of doubt is pushed far into the background.

"You ought to come by Stark Tower sometime," Steve mentions at one point of their conversation. "It's where all of us are stationed at the moment.

"Why would visiting the home of an egotistical jerk interest me?"

Steve blinks, caught off-guard by Olena's venom towards Stark. Then he remembers that the two did not make the most pleasant of meetings aboard the helicarrier. "I…I know Dr. Banner would be happy to see you again. He spends most of his time in Stark's labs, feeling its best for everyone if he stays away from society." Steve drops his gaze and pushes a few scraps of food around his plate. "You could try to reconcile with Agent Romanoff," he says quietly after a few moments.

Olena's fork drops onto her plate with a clatter. "You set me up. You made me think that this was just a polite social call. And I…I believed you!" Anger lances through her, breaking open the tight lock on her unstable emotions. "You want me to go groveling back to Natalia, who rejected me after all these years of me believing she's dead. She rejected me!" Her voice rises shrilly, causing the other diners to turn and stare at them. "I will not pretend that everything is fine, just to restore the peace to your little group!" She flings her napkin and chopsticks onto the table. Grabbing her purse, she quickly stands and flees the restaurant.

Steve collapses dejectedly into his seat. He curses himself for thinking he could bring up the topic without Olena flying into a rage. He knows well enough of Natasha's short fuse, he should have counted on Olena having a similarly short fuse in her current state. Ignoring the stares from fellow diners, he drops some money on the table to cover the bill and leaves the restaurant. The cool evening breeze is his only comfort on the walk home.

In the opposite direction, Olena storms angrily down the street, muttering to herself in Russian. Angry tears pour hotly down he cheeks. She feels utterly betrayed by someone she thought she could have counted as a friend. The blow of two rejections threatens to crush her heart entirely. Blessedly, she makes it home to her small apartment before breaking down completely. She rages into the night before collapsing into her bed, sobbing until her tears run dry and she has exhausted herself completely.


End file.
